


(untitled: strength)

by parenthetic (renaissance)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:36:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4481255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/pseuds/parenthetic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Aren’t you sad?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	(untitled: strength)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aureations](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureations/gifts).



> Well, I'm not posting all of my SASO bonus round fills to ao3... but this one is Worth It... also I have been informed (shout-out to Laura, Danielle, and of course Kay for the prompt!) that the world needs more UshiShira. Although, exercise caution—this is set after current manga events, so since there's guesswork involved this might be jossed, or might be "accidental" spoilers or something idk...
> 
> Anyway, get some tissues ready, this one's bittersweet.

No-one talks about it on the bus back—no-one talks at all, actually. This isn’t like losing at Nationals, where you know the competition are on the same level as you, if not better. This is the first time since coming to Shiratorizawa that Kenjirou’s been on a team that lost at prefectural finals.

He remembers when he first came to the school and joined the volleyball club, how everyone already knew each other, how they had years of in-jokes. For too long, he floated on the periphery, satisfied that one day he’d be a part of the team, properly.

The first person to pull him in from the fringes was Ushijima. Kenjirou never knew if this was because Ushijima valued him on the team, or as a friend, or even if it was actually that Kenjirou pulled himself in, clinging to Ushijima because he was the only person who made him feel so comfortable—each option seemed just as far-fetched as the others. But it happened anyway, and Ushijima became something like a close friend to Kenjirou, despite how distant he could be.

Kenjirou doesn’t overthink things, though. To play on a team like Shiratorizawa, you can’t. You have to know your own mind, and everyone else’s. And you have to be strong.

On the bus back, they’re not so strong. It’s a tacit but no less ingrained rule that they don’t cry, but as Kenjirou makes his way to the back of the bus he sees Goshiki’s shoulders shaking with silent sobs, Yamagata’s head on his knees and his arms folded around his legs, Kawanishi with an elbow on the windowsill and a hand clamped over his mouth as he stares into the parking lot. The only person who doesn’t look despondent is Tendou—he looks ready to murder.

When Kenjirou first met Ushijima, he was someone imposing, out of Kenjirou’s league. Kenjirou clawed his way up into that league by becoming the only setter who could draw out his full power, and Ushijima slowly became less scary, more approachable. So, Kenjirou picks the seat next to Ushijima, right at the back. Kenjirou doesn’t say anything as he sits down and slides his bag underneath his seat. Ushijima doesn’t say anything either. That’s how it usually is.

They set off, and Kenjirou hears a wail from the front of the bus. Goshiki, probably. No-one says anything. Coach Washijou is quiet—he’s like this sometimes, the calm before a storm. They know that when they get back to school, they’re going to be treated to one of his lectures, and then they _definitely_ can’t cry.

“You’re not crying,” Ushijima observes.

Kenjirou gives him a look. “We lost,” he says quietly. “What more is there to it?”

That, and he has to be _strong_. Strength—that was what Kenjirou valued on court, and off court too. And there’s more than one way to be strong. Someone needs to keep it together, and not just Ushijima.

Ushijima looks away.

“I could analyse it,” Kenjirou says. “I could tell you everything we did wrong, everything they did right—do you want that?”

“No,” Ushijima says, in a way that makes Kenjirou think he’d rather just forget it happened at all. That’s the real strength, being able to pick yourself up and move on so quickly. Not for the first time, Kenjirou wishes he was more like Ushijima.

Then, Ushijima speaks again—“Aren’t you sad?”

“Sad?” Kenjirou asks. “Should I be?”

“It’s fine if you are,” Ushijima says.

“I know that,” Kenjirou says, sticking his chin out, “but maybe I don’t want to be sad about this.”

Ushijima looks back at him. There’s no way Kenjirou could tell what he’s thinking from his blank expression. Ushijima’s like that. He doesn’t show what he’s thinking, and most of the time he doesn’t need to. Kenjirou’s never minded that like some people do. Being around him is safe.

And if he feels too comfortable, too safe, he’ll start to slip.

“You have next year,” Ushijima says, “and you know I’ve already been scouted. There’s nothing to be sad about.”

“Next year,” Kenjirou repeats.

Next year, he’ll be captain—Coach Washijou’s already told him as much—with Kawanishi as his vice captain. They’ll have a new libero to replace Yamagata, a new blocker for Tendou and a new spiker for Oohira—a new ace in Goshiki, taking Ushijima’s place.

Kenjirou thinks about playing without Ushijima on his team and lets out an involuntary gasp, clutching onto the fabric of his seat to stop himself from spiralling any further down that train of thought. Because it’s not just about strength anymore, it’s about having Ushijima by his side, supporting Kenjirou just by _being_ there.

Ushijima furrows his eyebrows. “Shirabu?”

And hearing Ushijima say his name—that’s what does it. Kenjirou feels the tears on his cheeks before he registers that they’re coming from his eyes. He’s dizzy with emotions he can’t describe and his vision blurs, and all he can think is, _no, not in front of Ushijima—_

“I thought you weren’t sad,” Ushijima says. His inflection isn’t teasing, and Kenjirou knows he’s being genuine and earnest. He’s thankful for that.

“I’m not,” Kenjirou says through a sob. “I’m _not_.”

“If you are,” Ushijima says after a beat, “there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Kenjirou knows he doesn’t _need_ to be strong all the time, but life would be easier if he could be. If he could just hold it together in front of Ushijima, if he could have picked a different seat, if, if, if—if Kenjirou’s going to step into Ushijima’s shoes as captain, he needs to be more like him at times like this.

The last thing he expects from Ushijima—Ushijima, always distant, always a little bit confused around other people—is an arm around his shoulders, but Kenjirou forgets himself for a minute, forgets that it’s _Ushijima_ , and leans into the touch, twisting himself so that his head falls on Ushijima’s shoulder.

“Oh, god,” Kenjirou gasps, “I’m sorry.”

Ushijima pulls him _closer_ , and Kenjirou feels the top of his head come in contact with Ushijima’s neck. Ushijima clears his throat and says, “Don’t apologise,” but all Kenjirou hears is, _you’re not strong enough_.

“I want to be stronger,” Kenjirou says, “I want to be, I want to be, I _am_ —”

For a while, they stay like that, Kenjirou muttering into Ushijima’s shoulder, making sure the touch lasts as long as he can make it. Kenjirou experiences a strange clarity—the bus isn’t quiet anymore. There are cries now, _real_ sobs from further down the bus, and conversation, yells, _anger_.

After the longest time, Kenjirou’s tears start to dry up, and he speaks again, since it may as well be his last chance. “How,” he begins, “how do you stay so strong?”

Ushijima doesn’t answer immediately, but that’s alright—he never does. “On court,” he says slowly, “I can be strong on my own, but other people make me stronger.”

Kenjirou’s never heard Ushijima say anything like that before, never heard him admit to being anything less than the most important on court, which, to be fair, he is. But to hear him talk about his team like that makes Kenjirou’s heart leap—not as much as what Ushijima says next, though.

“Off court, y _ou_ make me stronger.”

Kenjirou lets out another sob, and trying to shut his eyes is ineffective when there are so many tears spilling onto Ushijima’s shoulder, soaking through his club jacket. If it weren’t for the space that widens as Ushijima turns his neck and it loses contact with Kenjirou’s head, he would barely notice Ushijima pressing his lips to his hair. Kenjirou stops crying abruptly, but he doesn’t shift. Ushijima’s arm is still clasped close around his back, and bringing him even closer.

And, like always, neither of them need to say anything. That’s how their friendship’s always been, and that’s what it’ll always be. And if Kenjirou were stronger, he wouldn’t _want_ to say anything either. But he’s not strong, not as strong as he wants to be. He’s strong enough to play with a team like Shiratorizawa, but not strong enough not to whisper, “I like you,” not strong enough to hold back his tears when Ushijima doesn’t reply.

They don’t say anything for the rest of the bus ride, but they don’t move either, and somehow Kenjirou gets his legs tangled with Ushijima’s, closer than he could ever have dreamed they’d be. And when they get off the bus, back to the school, it’s not long before Kenjirou finds Ushijima by his side again. When they’re sent away after Coach Washijou speaks to them, Ushijima links his fingers with Kenjirou’s as they break away from the rest of the team and take the long route to the station.

That’s all it is—Ushijima’s never been good at communicating his thoughts. Now, though, Kenjirou knows him well enough to know what this means. And in that regard, he can be strong enough for both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment! c:


End file.
